


Croix's Birthday Present

by KriegsaffeNo9



Category: Little Witch Academia
Genre: Deathfic, F/F, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Overdosing, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 02:35:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14251233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KriegsaffeNo9/pseuds/KriegsaffeNo9
Summary: For her birthday, Croix decides to give back to Chariot.It doesn't end even a little bit well.This fic is cursed.





	Croix's Birthday Present

"It's my birthday," Croix said, her voice hardly a whisper in Chariot's ear. "But you're getting the present."

Chariot waited her out. The blindfold was just a little too tight around her head. It was giving her a headache.

She felt Croix's hand on her thigh, stroking a vein that gently pulsed below her soft hand. She felt a sharp prick; a moment later, she could feel the pressure of something being injected.

"Croix...?" she said, yanking her blindfold off and flinging it away. She looked at the bead of blood on her thigh, at Croix's hand where she still had the little needle. "What in the hell did you do?"

"Give you a good time," Croix said, and the sensation hit her.

* * *

 

Croix stared at the bathroom door. Chariot was inside, sobbing. If she were in a detective kind of mood, she would surmise that Chariot must be in the bathtub thanks to the acoustics.

"Come on," Croix said. "You've made your point. I'm sorry."

Nothing. Nothing but tears, anyway.

She pounded the door with her fists, not quite a knock, not quite an attempt to just bash the thing in. "It's supposed to feel good, you stupid bitch! You should be having a good time! _You should be thanking me, you stupid cunt!_ "

Her wand is charged and ready to go. Chariot's is on her belt, hanging from its hook. Chariot was strong, freaky-strong, (the bruise blooming on Croix's chest between her tits was proof of that, and it hurt every time she breathed,) but a little magic would sort her out.

Sort her out good.

Croix touched her wand. It was heavy (with power, potential) and the prongs good and sharp.

Let's sort this out.

* * *

 

 _Let's discuss this, shall we?_ thought Croix.

You're smart. She's badass. You know her weight, her muscle mass. You haven't exactly asked her how much cough medicine she takes when she's sick or if she's ever been on a drip for pain, but you could guess her tolerance given her age and weight and sex and witch-nature. And she's the strongest witch you know, physically at least.

So you kicked in the lock after four or five good kicks, and you pushed in, and she stumbled to her feet, hand on the tile damp from your pre-coital shower (you were expecting sex), and you know she's going to go for the curtain rod. The obvious answer: point your wand and say " _Ardachadh_!" and mean it.

A streak of violet light struck her abdomen. She stumbled, her feet slipped (for she is in socks) and she hit the back wall, slipping down. No blood, and she was moving, maintaining focused eye contact. You were fine. Enervation spell. Kicked the strength right out from under her, no lasting harm. Good call. Obvious next spell: giving her the hook. You snagged the collar of her shirt and dragged her, flopping and kicking, out onto the floor. And you told her something.

What did you say?

Right, actually, you kicked her in the shoulder and told her to stop being a little bitch and enjoy herself. Was that so hard?

Was it?

She stopped crawling. Her sobs turned to a choked snoring noise. What did you do?

You left.

She's tough. You're smart. She was being a little bitch. You showed her who worships who in this relationship. You showed her.

You gave it a minute to cool your head. Like a smart person.

And so here you are standing in the kicked-in doorway to the bathroom and there is Chariot and she isn't breathing.

What are you gonna do?

* * *

 

Not that she realized it, or let herself realize it, but she held a lonely vigil over Chariot's body for a good half hour or so, waiting for her to move, imagining her moving, hearing the hiss of the air conditioning as her breathing.

She realized, eventually. She was smart, after all, real bright.

So she crawled back to bed, mixed herself a dose, and lay on the bed, feeling the soothing high wash over her.

After another half hour or so in the same apartment as Chariot's corpse, she felt for her phone and called the police and waited for the world to end.


End file.
